


Sleepshiver

by nobodyyouknow, subtextham



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Anal Sex, Frottage, Hallucinations, Interrogation, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodyyouknow/pseuds/nobodyyouknow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtextham/pseuds/subtextham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zenigata turns to a new tactic when Jigen faithfully abstains from divulging some vital information. Jigen is shoved down memory lane ass-first.</p><p>On the darker end of Lupin verses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepshiver

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody here. I wrote an exceedingly rough draft of this, then Sub wrote a nicely cleaned up version while adding a ton, then back and forth a few more times. I really like the mood, themes, and art of the Fujiko Mine series; between that and my own experiences, I guess that's where this came from. Anyway, buy the ticket, take the ride. Enjoy.

Jigen starts in his chair -- and his wrists fight the cuffs that hold him. Zenigata tilts back, sitting opposite Jigen across the cold metal that separates them. The room is small and dark, a single hanging lamp casts yellow light on the dingy surroundings. Interrogation, some voice in Jigen’s mind supplies, fighting repeat erasure. He knows because he was here before, maybe hours ago. Something niggles -- it’s less than that, and he had better figure out why. He mentally retraces his steps. Last he was in this chair, he wasn’t cuffed to it. Zenigata was grilling him fair and square, sternly warning him about being sorry if he didn’t cough up the information sooner rather than later. And Jigen kept his mouth shut like always, and, sooner than he expected, he was marched out of the room.

\-- And into a cell. Four men pinned him down and force-fed him something. Surprised and angry, he waited until they all left to sit up. He replaced his hat and straightened his tie. It must be a sedative -- surely, he’s being transferred. His upper back felt sore from the rough treatment, so he flexed his shoulders. An uncanny levity came over them instantly, spreading to his chest, followed by an odd pressure in the skin of his face. He feared and then ruled out allergic reaction to whatever he had been given -- but the sensations kept building.

He tensed on the cot. Whatever they gave him was already kicking in. Jigen told himself not to panic; told himself he’s been here before, that he knows well enough what to do. Made it a mantra, tried to keep breathing.

He unclenched his fists, which he thought he might’ve balled up to keep concentrated; his hands were shaking and practically dripped sweat. He took deep breaths -- with each one, hot sparks erupted from his lungs. This and the pressure in his face told him it wasn’t a sedative, at least not one he’d ever been slipped before. He grew warm all over, felt his muscles loosen as he became aware of the pleasant weight of his body. Briefly, he was awash in relief: This was a sensation he was more accustomed to, knees bowing out of their own accord, heat pooling in his belly, …oh.

Jigen knew he was being monitored, so he just barely refrained from cursing aloud. He couldn’t believe this was happening, but more importantly, he was suffocating in his clothes. He hesitated, then deliberately peeled off his jacket. He laid it on the bed, then unbuttoned his cuffs and collar and summarily vowed to retain some kind of dignity in this situation by going no further.

No sooner did he do this than he heard keys in the door, and the cell was suddenly swarmed with cops. The rat bastards (each one with a smirk on his face) restrained him and two frog marched him out of the room. Their hard hands on his arms and the brush and bump of their legs against his made his head spin.

Back into the interrogation room he went. He was spun around and shoved into a chair; his wrists were cuffed to each metal arm. As the guards that escorted him to the room made their exit, Jigen looked up to see the inspector bristling with a different kind of energy. He asked, “How you feeling?” with the mother of all shit eating grins.

There is a pause. Jigen can’t tell for how long.

“Whassat? Didn’t quite catch that.” Jigen once again snaps to attention. He swallows nothing; a dry tongue rubs against dry lips. For fear he said something or made a sound while not mentally present, he clenches his teeth. He knows Pops is fucking with him. “Go fuck yourself.”

Zenigata guffaws. “Got something on your mind?” Jigen’s stomach drops. The whole room tilts backwards; Jigen starts forward to compensate. The chair rocks and the cuffs cut against his bare wrists. The shock leaves him slightly winded.

“I didn’t take you for this kinda guy. This is a new low.”

Zenigata snorts and leans forward. The amused cant leaves his shoulders, and his face and voice take on a charismatic filter. “Hey, look. I’ll cut you a deal.” Jigen slowly exhales more hot sparks. He’s only partially listening. “If you tell me the magic number, _sooner rather than later_ , you don't haveta stay in that chair anymore. And _if_ we go there and find out you weren't jerkin me around, you don't haveta be in this room anymore." Jigen is furious about bargaining against something that was taken from him -- of all things, his freedom. His face burns. "Now, let's try this again."

Jigen considers kicking his shoes at Zenigata's face, but he knows the dexterity required for the move is long past him. Instead he rubs his ankles against each other and immediately regrets it, as the sensation this generates jolts up his spine. He thinks about how cool the floor must be, despite it surely harboring residue of every bodily substance known to man. His skin flashes. His shirt is yanked up. A hasty, dextrous hand undoes his belt. His pants are shoved down, drawers and all, exposing his ass. His painful erection twitches. He has an odd feeling, like he knows what’s going to happen as it happens. Huge hands grab his hips, and finally, Jigen is entered, filled, positively to the brim; he muffles his outcry with a grunt. As he gets pounded, he pants into the table, one hand grabs his hair, and the other --

Slams against the table, causing Jigen to start and rock the chair again. “Hey! I’m talking to you.” Jigen is still panting, hard. There’s no way to tell what else was carried over; Jigen does everything he can not to think about it. He’s amazed he’s even retained that memory; what was it -- ten, fifteen years ago?

Jigen fervently glances at the clock that isn’t there, was never there. Suddenly he’s furious. “SON OF A BITCH! GE -- ” his dry throat erupts in a series of hoarse coughs. Each wheezing cough causes a spasm throughout his whole body. He can feel everything, from the ghosting of his slacks against the skin of his legs to the material of his shirt stretching and relaxing against his pectorals, the line of sweat trickling down between them. The briefs he wears every damn day feel incredible, better than incredible.

Jigen looks up in time to see Zenigata watching him with a fresh frown on his face. He then notices his throat is perfectly relaxed -- since when? The thought of imagining a coughing fit, of all things, strikes him as absurd, yet unpleasantly possible. Disoriented, he screws his eyes shut, trying to reset his awareness of reality. When he opens them again, Zenigata has stood up and is nearly at Jigen’s back.

“Jigen…” Two massive hands drop on his shoulders, squeezing them. The room shudders. “I don’t have all day, y’know.” He feels something on his legs -- no, his chest. He’s afraid to look down, but something keeps sliding all over him. Of course he’d get stuck in the room with the guy with three hands. The sensation dips below his shirt and smooths over his skin, running over well-worn pathways, making its way to his neck. His breath catches in preparation for the inevitable, trying to maintain some level of control. But instead of wrapping around his neck, it circles around his Adam’s apple, only lightly presses on his jugular: feels for his pulse. There’s that feeling again; as if he knows what’s going to happen as it’s happening. He grinds his teeth and takes a deep breath, trying to snap himself out of it. Zenigata leans into his ears and mutters with two voices, “Quit wasting my time.”

Jigen is at least coherent enough to grunt back, “You’re wasting your own time, Pops.” A hurricane rushes past Jigen’s ears as Zenigata throws his hands off in frustration. He hears him walk some steps behind him, then back again; he begins to pace. He feels this in his own feet; becomes him. The feeling becomes nearly unbearable as the vibrations grow stronger, more real, but breaks off as Zenigata speaks again.

“Now, you listen, here. If you’re gonna get all smartass on me, that’s gonna change things.”

Jigen might normally be able to easily dismiss such a threat as empty, or otherwise not worth his mental faculties, but not when the words were ringing in his ears, vibrating every atom in his body. Zenigata finally walks into view: a towering living thing, whose hat and many layers of clothing transfigure him into some kind of massive beast. Jigen notices all this as if for the first time. This enormity bears himself onto the metal desk, seeming at once to be so close that the two are in danger of merging, and miles away, when Jigen focuses on something else.

“I made you an offer,” Zenigata leans down slightly, angling his eyes closer in front of Jigen’s own. “Remember? I made you a very fair offer. Can you imagine? Me, an esteemed member of Interpol, making a filthy criminal an offer! Do you know how much of my credibility is on the line? Do you realize how much I’m sticking my neck out for you, buddy? _Huh_?”

Something in his voice, his eyes, gets to him. “Well…” Jigen starts, before he catches himself. Fuck, what is he _doing_?

“Well, what? Are you just gonna walk all over me now? Is that it? ‘Cause I don’t have time for that. I don’t have the time for that, and I don’t have the patience for that, and I’m a very, very patient man.”

Jigen inhales a slow, measured breath; to center himself rather than to prepare to respond, he reminds himself. It seems to help a little, and he takes note of his surroundings while he has the focus for it -- for one, he notes the door to the room is peculiarly weak, as evidenced by the hinges and the way sound leaks through it. This is not a room meant for interrogation. In fact, he notices the sound of a couple of men approaching, engaged in lighthearted conversation. He tries to listen in. At first they’re far too muffled, but then, he thinks he can almost...

“ … Greatest … world, right here.”

Jigen laughs bashfully, despite himself. Maybe he’s had too much to drink after all. “You think I’m pullin’ your leg, here? I’m serious, I’ve never -- ” Another patron bumps into him, jostling Jigen with him, though his arm stays firmly wrapped around Jigen’s shoulders. “Hey, watch yourself! Some people. Anywho, what was I saying?”

Jigen studies him, hard, as if some kind of subtle observation is likely to come to him in this state. Then, against all sense he’s built up to this point, he goes right ahead and closes all distance between them and the wall. He grips the taller man’s jaw with both of his hands and tilts his face down, gets close enough to feel his breath ghosting in his beard. His companion’s belt buckle presses against his belly, cold and hard through his cotton tshirt. Then hands come up to hold his ass and they’re kissing. Someone in the bar woofs.

Jigen is aware of a smattering of applause and whistles as the hands on his pants slide up his back and the other man takes more control of the kiss. Jigen can feel eyes on them; in stark contrast to his usual impulse he finds himself reveling in it. Ignited, Jigen takes the bulge in the other man’s pants into his hand, wants more than anything to devour him, become him. His awareness narrows to the pounding in his ears, the hands on his ass, the man in his mouth, and the quickly forming erection in his hand.

Something stutters. Jigen breathes, opens his eyes; a hand is holding his, pulling him and weaving them through the crowd. The cold black air of the night hits his face and it’s a relief, he seems to be quite flushed. Next thing he knows, he’s once again pinned the other man to a wall, going right for his belt in the fragile obfuscation of the alleyway. His quick-draw fingers make fast work of it, and once he finishes, he frees his own erection. Soon a huge hand is stroking both of them, the other laying gently on the back of Jigen’s neck. Within minutes, Jigen is panting and whimpering into his chest, hands tucked into warm spots between trousers and muscular thighs.

“Oh, kid…” the hand on his neck tilts his head back and they’re kissing sloppily. The thighs tense and flex against his bare hands. Jigen’s hips begin to thrust of their own accord. If Jigen had any restraint left, he supposes most of it was forgotten back at the bar. The chill of the night and the faint sounds from the street disappear and it feels so good, he feels so close. He grips the thighs tighter, desperate to be pushed just a little bit more, until --

Snap. Snap snap. Jigen jolts, panting hoarse breaths onto the hand in front of his face. He focuses on and follows the hand as it withdraws, begins to rub circles on Zenigata’s temples. He watches as the inspector languidly feels the stubble on his own face, looks around and sniffs, then finally, lifts himself off the desk and walks around to the other side. He reaches for something underneath, and within minutes, a guard comes to the door.

“Get him outta here.” Zenigata steps back to allow room for the guard to enter. The door opens just a crack further, and Jigen, squinting through his sweat, thinks he recognizes him. When he opens his mouth, he’s sure of it.

“No problem! You oughta take a lil rest, though.” And with an explosion of gas and a monstrous cry, Zenigata crumples to the ground. Lupin covers his nose with his arm, clearing the air with the other. Surveying the room, he leisurely strolls over to his partner hunched pathetically in one of the two pieces of furniture in the entire room.

Lupin dramatically raises the low brim of his cap, and with it, his eyebrows. He gives Jigen some of his best elevator eyes, taking extra time to hover over the tight section of his pants. “Well, well! What’ve we got here?”

Jigen looks up weakly. He hoarsely replies, “Lupin, _please_.”

Lupin places his cheek in his palm and clicks his tongue. “Aw, gee, what’d they do t’ya, huh?” He finally strolls over to Jigen and deftly undoes his bindings, bright red bruises already replacing them.

Without missing a beat, Jigen stumbles over to the nearest wall like a newborn deer and practically rams his body against it. He unzips his pants. Much of him doesn’t think this is really happening, keeps trying to wake up. In spite of this, he grinds out, “Do me a favor and don’t look at me for a minute, will ya.”

Lupin snorted. If Jigen had about a dozen fewer years between them, he might not suspect Lupin seemed almost insulted. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Still, he turned and lit a cigarette. “Make it snappy.”

Jigen, long accustomed to the petulant behavior of one who always gets what he wants, effortlessly ignores him. As he finally frees his erection, he’s met with the unfamiliar and situationally unpleasant sensation of apparently having been leaking for some time. All the same, he attempts to get off with the urgency of someone dying of a poison, for what may have been seconds, minutes, even hours -- Until, suddenly, he feels like he’s hit by a bus, leans further onto the wall lest his buckling knees force him to crumple to the ground; just as he thinks it’s over, it happens again, and he muffles his cry into his supporting arm a second time.

As he catches his breath, his memory, his awareness of time and space, his senses all snap back like a rubber band, jogging as if to catch up from being mostly absent. While he’s still more lightheaded than he’s used to, the difference is jarring, almost embarrassing for how quickly and easily it asserted itself. He takes a deep, but cautious breath of relief, and finds it mercifully devoid of extraneous sensation. As he rights himself and makes himself decent again, he bemusedly notes his contribution to the already impossibly filthy floor. He turns around, and it's only thanks to his quick reflexes that he manages to catch the uniform flying in his direction.

“Those guards won’t sleep forever! Let’s move!”


End file.
